


The Things You Can Hear

by PoppyCartinelli



Category: Agent Carter (TV)
Genre: Cartinelli - Freeform, F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-13
Updated: 2016-09-13
Packaged: 2018-08-14 17:30:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,466
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8022796
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PoppyCartinelli/pseuds/PoppyCartinelli
Summary: It's gay. Angie can hear people's souls. It's fluff af.





	The Things You Can Hear

**Author's Note:**

> I messed around with second and third person narrative. woooooooooooooooooo
> 
> A special thank you to ShadowofaBlackRose for betaing and calming my crazy commas <333

 

The first time you meet, alone as you can get, you can’t hear Peggy’s soul. You aren’t surprised though, the automat is loud with the sound of coffee laced chatter, clinking forks, and the kitchen gurgling in the background.

“I saw him once at a USO show in Passaic. You could eat him with a spoon”

“Yes, I understand he was quite something.”

The English accent laces around you. It’s so different from the clamor of the diner. Refined almost. Angie would’ve thought the lady posh if it wasn’t for the hurt radiating from her voice.

“Everything alright, English?”

She lies to you. The twinge in her voice barely giving her away. It’s not a complete lie, though you don’t realize that until later. You still try to cheer her up - she looks like she needs it - and besides, her legs really could get her onto Broadway.

There’s a twinge in your chest at Peggy’s bittersweet smile. You desperately want to hear this woman’s soul.

 

The second time you meet is quieter, much more alone at this hour, but apparently not quiet enough. Even though you lean over her, you can’t hear her. It’s maddening. You’ve only met a few people as quiet as she, and they were broken, broken messes.

She is not broken.

 

* * *

 

Angie’s eleven when she realizes people can change. Her best friend sits next to her, a burbling stream in the library. So calming. Angie’s loved her since middle school started. A week goes by and Angie can’t get ahold of her. The teachers don’t know where she is either. Angie cries with worry.

She shows up in class. Angie can’t get through the door before the sound assaults her. It’s like nails on a chalkboard - the sound grates at the back of Angie’s eyes until she’s nearly in tears.

Angie tries to meet her eyes, tries to ask a question, tries to understand what has happened. She never meets Angie’s eyes again. Refuses to talk to her. It’s a cruel thing to do to an eleven-year-old.

Her name’s in the obituaries before Angie graduates high school. It’s the first,  _ and certainly not the last,  _ time that Angie takes a bottle from her parents’ liquor cabinet.

* * *

 

 

The third time you meet alone, really alone this time, Peggy is moving in. Her room, supposedly as silent as the rest of the Griffith, is filled with orchestra music - the tune so upbeat, so loud, you can’t believe you hadn’t noticed it before.

The violins and drums dominate, and you are so stunned, so overwhelmed that all you can do is try your best to read her lips. You are disappointed when she turns you away and asks you to leave.

You barely notice her lie today. She’s tired, but it’s not the phone company this time. Dorothy Underwood greets you both outside.

You pass by her door the next day and you can still hear her. Dottie is the one who asks why you’re just standing outside Peggy’s door.

“Shouldn’t you knock if you want to go inside?”

“Oh, yes, I got distracted.”

You trundle away to your room. Dottie doesn’t comment on how you don’t knock on Peggy’s door. You’re thankful for that.

You hear her anytime she’s within speaking distance after that. Sometimes she’s soft, sometimes she’s loud. Sometimes the beat is fast, sometimes it’s soft. She’s a beautiful cacophony of strings and brass and percussion that you can’t get enough of.

 

The fourth time you meet, there’s staccato cymbals coming in your window. When she looks at you and smiles the panic recedes. You hold her,  _ the first time she’s ever let you so close _ , and all you can hear is soft woodwinds.

You realize it then, in between the “Someday”s and the cymbals following her out your door, that you are in love with Peggy Carter’s orchestra. And from the way her beat changes around you, she just might be in love with you too.

 

* * *

 

No one’s sound changes like Peggy’s does. Angie’s not sure why. She spends days in the Automat pondering Peggy’s orchestra. It could be that Angie’s in love with her, perhaps that’s attuned Angie to her sound. Angie hopes it’s that, because the other reason she’s come up with is terrifying.

When people’s sounds change, their souls change. The only time that happens is when huge events in that person’s life happen. Sometimes bad,  _ a flicker of a name in a newspaper _ , and sometimes good.

Angie’s cousin’s noise changed from the shifting of boxes to the rustling of bird feathers when she met her, now, husband. Angie’s mother went from the softest of Italian singing to the sound of hugging. Angie wondered if she had changed for all of her children, Angie wonders if all parents do.

_ That’s the only thing that scares her about children. Will she change too? _

But Peggy changes all the time. Angie’s only memory of a soul changing is when it’s breaking, for whatever reason. The thought of Peggy breaking apart nearly leaves her breathless. Angie has to take a minute in the cold-room the first time she thinks of that.

Can one person really put themselves back together so many times?

* * *

 

 

The fifth time you meet, you don’t meet alone. Mr. Fancy picks you up and Peggy meets you at the door of the largest house you’ve ever seen.

Mr. Fancy sounds like cats purring. It’s very hard to take him seriously when he reminds you of his actual name. You’ve always liked cats.

But Peggy, hearing Peggy after weeks is a euphoria you did not expect. Her stings are loudest today and they sit in so well with Mr. Fancy’s cats that you have to step back and cover your smile. They sound good together, it’s no wonder to you that they’re friends.

Mr. Fancy leaves and maybe you get a tad excited about the sheer size of this place (and of course you’re going to call your ma).

Later though, you are alone. And it’s like the whole house is filled with musicians; they trumpet from the stairs or plunk piano keys in the foyer, and there’s a whole cello group in the dining room. You can’t stop smiling.

Perhaps your smile is infectious because Peggy doesn’t stop smiling either. You laugh over dinner and there are bells in the air. You laugh for so long your knees feel weak.

Peggy’s there to help you to your feet but now your legs really are giving out from under you. The woodwinds are back and maybe you have a soft spot for them. Maybe they have a soft spot for you because the next thing you know Peggy’s so very, very close and the distance is shrinking.

Her lips actually silence the orchestra. You can hear her breath shake and when she pulls back the woodwinds stay quiet, but they’re there; and Peggy is beaming down at you, and you’re still a little wobbly because this is a lot to take in for one day.

You sleep in the same bed that night. Just sleep. Curling up against Peggy’s chest to hear her heart. The music that now surrounds you slowly dies down until all you can hear is what’s keeping her alive.

When you wake up in the morning, it’s flutes that greet you first. Peggy’s fingers combing through your hair greet you second.

Peggy’s orchestra is only silent when she’s asleep or when her lips make you deaf. You realize you can only hear her little gasps when your lips are on hers. This brings out instruments that you have no name for, but you try your best to think up names for them anyway.

The deep bass that’s only a tinkling off of strumming is ‘Peggy’s inner thigh’ and the rattling that reminds you of sticks dragged across metal bars is ‘Peggy’s left breast’. You are very astute at naming Peggy’s music.

 

* * *

 

Angie’s never told anyone about what she hears. ‘Hearing things’ just doesn’t have a good ring to it. She tells Peggy four days later. Peggy’s woodwinds die down and the piano comes back. Angie almost worries about the change until Peggy’s sat herself in front of Angie and asked to know more.

She listens without saying anything for a long time. Angie tells her about nails on a chalkboard and purring cats and the rustling of bird feathers. Angie’s silent for a long time before Peggy asks what Angie hears around her.

The woodwinds are back. And Angie thinks now that they’ve always been there. Since their second meeting at the L&L probably. They’ve just been in the background and Angie hopes desperately that they always will be.

Angie tells her and Peggy smiles. They both agree that it’s kind of perfect.

**Author's Note:**

> Be nice to people, make good choices. Be a little gay. Y'know.


End file.
